Monday, July 13, 2015

Spindle Snippets

Thought all you lovely peoples would like to see what I've been working on. These are all from the newest story I've been typing madly at, introduced in this post. Let's just say I'm having way too much fun taking Sleeping Beauty and turning it upside-down to deliciously fit my own needs. 


“They say if you dream a thing more than once, it's sure to come true.”

Felix shook his head. “Then they'd better be wrong.”


Braden resisted the urge to shake his brother by the shoulders. Felix had twenty-one good years to his name, but that didn't mean he was always sensible. Braden had a toddling son who proved rather a handful, but that didn't mean he was always patient.



Marita Kadlec yanked her hand back from the spinning wheel and glared at her finger. Already, a drop of blood was forming. Annoyed, she wiped at it hastily with a rag bearing the pain of previous pricks. Directing a well-deserved scowl at the spindle, she shook her injured finger at it.

“And this is just one reason why I hate you so.”


Early mornings never liked Marita. She was a night owl, through and through. Her mind awoke at night; her brain thrived on the light of the stars. Thoughts and questions bombarded her in the darkness like no other time. But here she was now – off just after dawn to start her new job. Her grandmother thought the morning bright and early, but Marita disagreed. There was nothing bright about this morning.

She kicked at a stone in her path and watched it skitter away. It settled dejectedly in a small gully near the edge of the road, right where the ground dropped off to allow the stream to follow the curve of the road. Or perhaps the road followed the curve of the stream. Marita sighed – what did it matter?


 “Now where is your rider?”

The horse nuzzled her, and she stoked his velvet face. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been around a horse. It would have been before Mother... her mind quenched the rest of the thought.


Marita turned to see the rider stumbling up the road. He could have been only a year or two older than herself, and his clothes would have been fine save for the fact that they left a trail of water on the road. His head was bare, and disheveled dark hair dripped into his eyes. And due to some unknown circumstance, he walked bootless. The sight was rather hilarious, and Marita struggled to hold a giggle in check.

He approached the horse and shook a dripping finger at it. “No carrots.”

If horses could smirk, Marita was pretty sure Samson smirked.

God bless! 

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